


The Lost and the Desperate

by Cyder



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Guide John Watson, M/M, Sentinel Sherlock Holmes, Sentinels because OHEMGEE I LOVE IT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyder/pseuds/Cyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a Sentinel who refuses to bond with a Guide. John Watson is a Guide who isn't even a Guide. In the end, it all works out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God I'm horrible with summaries. Anyway, I love the Sentinel AU, my favorites being The Observations on Sentinels and Guides in Victorian London by RyuuzaKochou (I love you) and Chameleon by VelvetMace (I love you but WHY HAVEN'T YOU FINISHED THE WORK PLEASE I BEG YOU FINISH THE WORK). This is my first time trying to write a story of my own though, and I don't even have the whole story mapped out in my brain yet, but it's coming. I just really wanted another Sentinel Sherlock AU fanfic out there, because there's obviously not enough.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or any of the characters affiliated to the series, and this fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes.
> 
>  
> 
> ***UPDATE: Hi guys, thanks for taking the time to read my story! IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I UPDATED. I'M SO SORRY. I have up to 6 chapters written, but I'm still not completely happy with them, so I'm tweaking them. I PROMISE I'LL POST THEM VERY SOON THOUGH. THANKS FOR KEEPING UP WITH MY WORK!!!

When he had received the Calling, John Watson was sixteen years old.  


John knew that he had a pretty good chance of Turning Sentinel or being Called to Guide, as Mum was a Sentinel and Dad a Guide, but nothing was ever guaranteed. Harry had Turned just a year before, and secretly in his heart John wished that he would Turn just like his sister, who was brave, fearless, wild, and everything John wished to be. Harry, being Harry, couldn’t understand John’s anxiousness at emerging. She told her worrying little brother, “Whatever happens happens, Johnny. No use fussing over it.”  


But fuss John did, and he couldn’t help letting out a big mental sigh of relief when he finally fell asleep one night and was Called.  


He dreamed of the desert. He couldn’t tell what time it was because it was simultaneously day and night, hot and cold, the sand both menacing and comforting at the same time, and the juxtaposition of it all confused John quite a bit. He also didn’t understand why his Calling place would be the desert, as he’d read somewhere in the Sentinel and Guide pamphlets that the place of Calling was usually somewhere of importance to the Guide. John had never been to a desert before, had only seen pictures of it in history textbooks and movies. 

Seeing an actual desert with his own eyes was much different from seeing it in pictures, though. The golden sand that twinkled in the light of the sun stretched on for miles on end, making valleys and mountains over the landscape. The air smelled of stardust and the inkling of the dawn, and he tasted the iron rust of blood on his tongue, and everything swirled together to create the perfect combination of adventure and peace that John couldn't help breaking into a smile. He breathed in the air then contentedly strove out to find his Caller, who would undoubtedly be waiting for him somewhere in this vast stretch of golden sand.  


When John woke up the next day without having met his Caller, John was frightened out of his wits, because he’d never heard of a Calling without a Caller before.  


In the morning, he did not tell his parents of what had happened last night; both were always so quick to assume the worst of situations. Instead, he ran straight to Mike Stamford’s house earlier than their usual meeting time for school and interrogated his friend of his own Calling.  


“So you met your Caller, then?”  


“Of course I did, Johnny.” Mike yawned and stretched, not yet catching on to the urgent mood of his friend. Mike had been Called five months ago, to the delight of Mike’s parents. The Stamfords were a strictly normal family, and Mike was the first Guide be Called in a couple of hundred years.  


John didn’t stop questioning. “And when you were Called, you started to pick up emotions from other people, like it says in the pamphlets?”  


Mike’s eyes flickered up to John’s face and stopped suddenly as he took in the hint of despair edging around the rims of his friend’s eyes. “Yea, although it was faint at first. The process really starts to kick in after a few weeks, and that’s when you start working on your shields, or so Ms. Ewing says.” He paused to furrow his brow at John. “And speaking of, you’re giving off an awfully panicked mood right now, John.” Mike gently grabbed John’s arm. “Everything all right?”  


John curtly nodded. “It’s nothing. Come on, we’ll be late to class.” He stared straight ahead at the school gates, pointedly ignoring the worried stare he felt on his face. Maybe the dream was never his Calling, John thought desperately. Maybe the desert was just an ordinary dream, and he was never Called.  


Yet deep in his soul he knew, John knew that he’d been Called, and that that desert dream had indeed been his Calling. And when over the next few days, weeks, then months, he still couldn’t pick up any emotional vibes from the people around him, John was completely taken over by panic. Fear, grief. Despair.  


John was–he was, what in the hell was he? He’d been Called to Guide, and everything in his soul screamed that he was a Guide, but unlike all other Guides, he couldn’t feel. He couldn’t sense, he wasn’t empathic. Oh God, he was defunct. Ruined. _Wrong._  


So John never told anyone, not his family, not his friends, and certainly not the Tower officials, of his Calling. And no one noticed, because who would notice a small little boy who screamed “normal” with no empathic powers whatsoever? Yes, no one noticed the small twitch of his left eye when John told his lie to the world, and not even the most powerful of empaths managed to pick up the panic and the fear and the insecurity that was buried deep beneath the mask of ordinariness because John was good (more than good, bloody fantastic) at hiding in plain sight and pretending to be ordinary.  


He went through medical school with Mike at his side, who hadn’t bonded yet. The Guide Reform Acts had just been passed, allowing unbonded Guides to work in professional fields if they desired to do so. John, posing as an ordinary, smiled with the rest of the people and congratulated Mike on passing the entrance exams, then once more when he graduated med school. Then John joined the army because it felt so unbearably lonely to not be registered as a Guide by others, and he couldn’t bear to stand another day of idly standing by as one by one his Sentinel and Guide friends met their bond partners and left John behind. It was better when he joined the Army, because most of the time he didn't have time to feel sorry for himself. He contented himself in the knowledge that although it was in a more roundabout way than most Guides, he was still fulfilling his duty as one because he protected and saved those around him, albeit medically. He was proud that so many depended on him for their lives, and even felt a sense of superiority over other Guides because none of them would ever be able to save a dying man like John Watson could. 

But still he hung on to the small fragment of hope that one day he’d finally become a Guide in all aspects of the meaning and find his Sentinel, bond, and never let him go because _God_ John needed someone to love.  


On some days, when the war zone was relatively quiet, he would lay down and stare into the fields of stars and finally understand why he'd been Called in the desert. 

Mostly John the Soldier grimly carried on living day by day, happy to serve his Queen and Country. He fought alongside his fellow soldiers and collected his dog tags, and even wrote a few letters to his parents and Harry. He trudged on through the lonely desert in his bloodstained boots, saving lives, killing enemies, breathing in the stardust in the sky that was simultaneously day and night, and slowly losing himself in the monotony of shoot, kill, save, bleed, shoot, kill, save, until he was shot by an enemy Sentinel and lost his mind.


	2. The Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wanted that too; he wanted his Anthea. Someone preferably not boring, of course. But someone, anyone. Someone who would let Sherlock Holmes be Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,
> 
> It's been 2 years, and frankly I've no idea how the time flew by so fast. If I had to defend myself, I would say that I'm in my last year in university and frankly been too busy to write, but then again... 2 years. Oops. I'm sorry. 
> 
> That having been said, I'm posting the second chapter that I had written without editing it too much after that 2 year hiatus. It's quite short, but hopefully it conveys what I wanted it to convey. 
> 
> Also, thank you thank you thank you everyone who took the time to read my story! You guys kept leaving comments and kudos even when this wasn't being updated; honestly I felt like I should just keep it dead since I never did anything with this story, but I felt like I owed something to the people who took the time to read this. So, enjoy. Please feel free to leave any comments or questions you have about this particular Sentinel Universe, such as how shielding works, the history behind the Tower system, et cetera. I'm always grateful for constructive criticism and crave for attention.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who captured, more like _demanded_ , everyone's attention anywhere he went. He'd briskly storm into the room with his suave coat collar up and scarf snaked around his neck, and all eyes would irrevocably travel towards him like moths to a fire. It was a biological reflex for most people, though they didn't realize it. There was just something so very alluring about this man, this man who screamed "danger" at the top of his Sentinel lungs.

 

Said Sentinel was fully aware of the effect he had on others (of course he knew), and most times he'd wave off the stares of the unimportant and paid no attention to the dull minds that filled the space with their insignificant thoughts and lives. Unless he needed something from one of them, in which case he'd unleash the full power of his pheromones on his poor and helpless victim. Really, he brought no substantial harm to anyone with his shamming nice; on the contrary, they _liked_ it when he did that.

 

Like this woman in front of him right now. Late-twenties, drug addict from teenage years, has a boyfriend who she's been dating for two years but is cheating on him with her co-worker. Conclusion, boring. But useful in this case. Sherlock pulled up his lips to a full smile in satisfaction and leaned in closer, his stunning blue eyes running over her frame lewdly (slightly too skinny for her height, has a reoccurring back problem but hasn't bothered to go to the doctor) before gently giving her another push. "Can I come over to your place tonight, then?" He slid his arm across the counter and gently ran across his fingertips over her forearm, causing the poor woman to shiver slightly.

 

"I, I don't know, my place is probably a heap of mess tonight..." She laughed almost frantically, her mind and body unable to keep up with the pheromones that the man was giving off. She nervously giggled and tried for the umpteenth time to calm her nerves and not look like a bloody fool in front of this beautiful, gorgeous man who for some reason that she possibly couldn't fathom was interested in her enough to flirt with her. She could feel the jealous stares of the other women in the bar, and she puffed up in the jealous and heated glares of the other females. Sherlock, noticing that she stood up straighter and approached him less hesitantly, leaned in closer and tilted his head just a bit and stared intently into her eyes, beckoning her to give in. Sherlock never failed to get what he wanted, and he would not do so tonight as well.

 

"Alright, come over, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock grinned and wordlessly escorted her out of the bar that was beginning to give him a massive headache; five more minutes in that filthy place and he'd have zoned, regardless of whether or not he'd actually gotten what he wanted. Zoning in front of all those mindless people was unthinkable. If he _did_  lose himself, of course Mycroft would have undoubtedly found him so there really wasn't a real danger, but then Mycroft would know that he had zoned, again. Sherlock had been trying to keep his alarmingly frequent zones as far away from Mycroft's ears as possible, but his brother was just as observant, if not even more than Sherlock was, and he would not be fooled by the younger's attempts to cover the truth.

 

And the truth was, Sherlock was zoning more and more over the past years, and the length of those zones were slowly getting longer and longer. He needed a Guide, Mycroft would argue, or some time soon Sherlock would zone and never come back.

 

His brother was wrong. Sherlock didn't need a Guide. He'd survived this long without one, and he'd read stories of aged Sentinels who lived without Guides as well. Then Mycroft would counter that those Sentinels had had Guides when they were younger, and when they separated from their Guides, their Sentinel senses had been greatly degraded by age. Sherlock had nothing to say to that.

 

Still, Sherlock wouldn't admit that he needed a Guide. And other Sentinels hated him for being so dismissive about it. He remembered now the hate-filled glares he received all the way through uni, the threat notes and sabotages he'd had to endure because he refused to be subjugated by the biological imperatives set in place. Monster, their voices spit out. Defect, aberration, _freak._ Sherlock had once been hurt by such insults, back when he was still only a teenager and couldn't control his emotions as well.

 

Not now. He could dismiss the snarls of the other Sentinels as easily as he ignored the always-present void in the pit of his stomach. Their hate, just as did his hunger, allowed him to keep on going at the neck-breaking pace that he lived in. And a small part of him, the one that he'd spent a greater part of his life burying deep within his mind, said it didn't matter if they said such things anyway, because what the others said of him were all true.

 

It wasn't like Sherlock hadn't tried finding a Guide for himself. He tried, he really did. He went to all of the mind-numbingly, excruciatingly dull bond parties that the Tower held every three months in search of his other half. He obediently went through the matching process that the Tower had set up and never said a word of defiance to his parents when they prepared surprise mixes for their second son, because he wanted to find a Guide as much as they wanted him to. He looked on with jealousy at the relationship that his brother had with his Guide, Anthea, because the two of them looked perfect in his eyes; Mycroft, demanding and unyielding but so very gentle and caring with his Guide, who in turn provided him with the unconditional loyalty that all Sentinels craved. Sherlock wanted that too; he wanted his Anthea. Someone preferably not boring, of course. But someone, anyone. Someone who would let Sherlock Holmes be Sherlock Holmes.

 

Apparently that was a tall order, because none of the Guides seemed to be compatible with him, his mind. It was just much too fast-paced, constantly running without feeling any need to stop for a break or the like. And it was so _big,_ wide and expansive, feeling like an entire clan rather than just one man. Guides who had tried to put up a shield around Sherlock's mind ran away from him only days after, because they just couldn't keep up with him. It was impossible, they said. How could any Guide possibly contain a supernova? How could they possibly not guard the black hole without getting sucked in themselves? Even the ones who viewed him as a challenge to their empathic powers would quickly surrender and leave, shaking their heads at the Sentinel whose mind was impossible to protect. And every time a Guide came and went, Sherlock's fear that there wasn't a Guide in the world who was compatible with him would become bigger and bigger until Sherlock refused to even try to bond with anyone anymore.

 

That had been when he was 23; now he was 31, and still without a Guide. By now he was an expert at concealing his panic attacks, his near-zones, so that even Mycroft found it challenging to really know what was going on with him. The always present hunger that gnawed at his insides let him know that he was still alive. He had trained himself to keep his face absolutely devoid of anything when during his much too frequent blackouts. He knew that these were all signs of an unbonded Sentinel reaching his last zone, but he gritted his teeth and simply trudged onward. If he died, then he died. He was not afraid of death. Welcomed it, actually. There were days when Sherlock wondered if he should end his own life then and there.

 

What kept him living, even he didn't understand. Maybe he wanted to show the world that he could survive even without a Guide. Maybe it was his sheer stubbornness, because it irritated him that he had to be broken by the physical, biological demands of this world on him.

 

All that really didn't matter to him anymore, now that he was over his adolescent age. All that mattered to him now was the work. Yes, the work. Hunting down the foolish murderers who mistakenly think they've gotten away, unraveling the beautifully tangled truth so that even idiots like Lestrade could understand, proving to the world over and over again of his own worth, his only way of getting back at those who call him a monster.

 

His current case didn't involve any serial killers disappointingly, just one murder, but the method was peculiar enough to intrigue him out of his sulk. And if he worked efficiently, he would have it solved by the next morning thanks to this woman who was now hanging onto Sherlock's side like he was her lifeline. The smell of her cheap cologne had started to cling to his leather jacket and he secretly grimaced in distaste. It was too floral, too pungent to ever be considered elegant, and Sherlock disliked inelegant people. And the woman, this woman, she was inelegant in all forms of the word. Much too thick makeup, too revealing clothes, she'd already stepped on his toes twice in the club already, and  _god_ her cologne, it was so strong. Damn her for not having a lick of good taste in perfumes, fuck it was getting unbearable, his nose hurt, ouch, and he-

 

"Sherlock?"

 

He couldn't- no, this couldn't happen. Not when he was so close to solving the case-

 

"Sherlock! Sherlock!!" 

"Shut up, you're too loud, and you smell horrible."

 

Sherlock plunged into the white darkness. 

 


End file.
